Fighting for equality, fighting for your kids future, recognising the problem and trying desperately not to be part of it.. That’s me.

Yes I identify myself as a feminist, there is nothing I’m more proud to admit.

Any woman who tells you she doesn’t need feminism….. Well she can thank feminists for that.

So why the fuck have I always felt the need to lie about how many nobs I’ve had the pleasure of coming across? Why did I always resort back to the statement “around 10” (nearly spat out my wine laughing) when asked by a lover how many men I’ve shagged.

A harmless lie…

I’ve lied about how many men I’ve slept with.. Haven’t we all? It’s kind of funny that we can have this soul mate who knows every inch of us and every detail of why we are the people we are today except one thing.. Our sexual past which arguably is a huge part of our lives. At least it’s definitely a relevant part of our lives to the person that we are having a sexual relationship with.

So why the lies? Because we don’t want to look spoilt, we don’t want to look used, if too many other men have been there, it’s not special… It’s not his… anymore.

Of course when a bloke slays vag nightly we laugh, what a hilarious legend bathing in vaginal fluids while smoking a cigar and stroking a little fanny shaped trophy.. The Man. vaginal fluid bathing, reflecting on conquests.

And at the same time, hate their girls sexual past, they hate knowing that another guy has been there. The princess is theirs, mine, not your, I paid good money for her, I didn’t get her off Gumtree!!

Basically if you’ve fucked to many blokes your damaged goods.

Well what if we were to tell you our blokes that we are not goods at all.. A soul doesn’t spoil from evolving through many lives does it? Your vagina can’t spoil….. Natural child births, tampons, Pap smears can’t spoil one so no amount of lustful peanut butter covered orgys can either.

What if I was to tell you that this harmless lie… Hasn’t turned out to be so harmless after all.

That this seemingly innocent role in modern day relationships is actually contributing to a bigger problem.

Australia is in the mist of a crisis of epic proportions. Domestic violence is completely fucked. One woman every week is being murdered by the hands of a man who was supposed to support her, who was supposed to be proud of her, who was supposed to celebrate her safety, her freedom.

Because they thought they owned her, because they thought her life was theirs to take away, because they thought she was goods, a possession, a trophy that they were done with.

There are these tiny culturally accepted values that are placed on women, that are teaching men to treat us like objects, teaching us to treat ourselves like objects without even knowing.
I don’t think domestic violence will be combatted until these values and fundamental ideals are broken down and rebuild with a completely knew outlook and women’s sexual repression is just one very small part.

Weather you did it for the right reasons or the wrong reasons, it was your journey, it brought you here. You have every right to own your past and be proud of it as any man has.
It’s time for men to accept their partners sexual past, fuck you could even be proud of it..

My name is Constance, that’s me in front of you in the dirty dented black Captiva. Taking my time.

I’m driving down the freeway with my four kids in the car, Rumi and Snow are nearly 1, Billie-Violet 6 and Arlo Love is 4.

I don’t know why or how I ended up with 4 kids, it was never my intention to have 4 of them, who the fuck wants 4 of them. I’m only 32, all I really wanted was a bottle of wine and a hot boyfriend.

But you see truck driver, what we want and what we get are 2 very different things. Something, somewhere saw me as a fit tour guide for these 4 children, despite not having a stable relationship, despite not having much money, they were entrusted to me.

These children are 4 of the great innocents, 4 little divine light keepers, 4 of the greatest and realest teachers I have ever come across.

These 4 children are sacred.

I’m taking these sun warriors on a trip, I take them away at ever opportunity I get, sometimes camping, sometimes we stay with friends and sometimes we fly somewhere really far away, I owe it to them, to keep them in nature, to keep them connected. They like salt water in their hair and sand between their toes and so we find it.

In my car Truck driver, my daughter is crying because my son wiped snot on her leg, my son just threw a half eaten Apple at my head, one of my babies is screaming her head off and the other is fast asleep. Still I take my time.

When I fell pregnant with the twins I thought my life was over, my marriage was breaking down, I had no energy, I was an artist that had no time to paint, I felt like a fat unlovable pig. I was doomed, never to be loved again. Life had royally fucked me in the arse and I hate anal truck driver, I really do.

But then something magic happened, they arrived and I was so filled up from bottom to top with sparky golden love, for them, for myself and for my other children that I knew I had one job, to keep these 4 shiney ones safe, to keep us together like the little wolf pack we are.

That’s where you come in Truck driver, you have a job to do too, and your just trying to do it, get your load from A to B.

But your not really taking your time are you, your having a little panic attack about being stuck behind me aren’t you? doing 100 in a 100 zone? Maybe you have a family of little glory ones waiting for their dads at home, or maybe your in a meth fuelled rage and you just can’t slow down.

But right now, I don’t really give a flying fuck where you need to be or when you need to be there, because your driving so far up my arse that I feel like I need to repeat how I feel about anal. Remember the part where I don’t like it?

Your truck may be huge and powerful and ridiculously fast, but do you really think that I would risk all this, all that had been gifted to me, all that I was blessed with because your intimidating me?

No truck driver, Your not scaring me, I have turned up the gay lord music my daughter has made me put on and I am literally pretending you are dead.

You can just wait Truck Driver, take a deep breath, appreciated the fact that this is our first and last encounter, your family and beautiful kids or crack pipe and evil little baggie won’t disappear because I held you back for three minutes while day dreaming about the blog I’m going to write you that you’ll definitely never read..

When I turned 18 I returned to Perth from a six month stint in Melbourne and landed a job at The Cottesloe Beach Hotel.
I was rapt, it was such a cool job to get pouring beers behind the bar, working with 200 other staff of a similar age, having fun, drinking, meeting new people.
I had dropped out of high school at 15 so it was sort of like a whole summer of the high school or leavers that I had missed out on.
To make matters even better I had just lost a whole lot of the puppy fat that ruined my teenage years, to put it bluntly I was pretty dam hot.

The minute I stepped foot behind that bar I was “bagsed” by the men, a little like vultures, a DJ told me I was his new number 1. I had no idea what he meant. The promo manager asked me to come into the toilets with him and his friends, to this day I don’t know if he wanted to do lines of coke or have an orgy. And so on and so on.
There was a bet as to who would be the first guy to “land” and like the kitten to the cream I fell for it all.

I had had limited sexual experience, I was a big binge drinker and most of all I wasn’t used to this kind of attention, of course, I loved it.
The reason I’m writing this blog is because to this day, 13 years later I still feel a dark cloud of anger when I think of that summer and that hotel. For a long time it was shame but now just anger.
You see over the course of 8 months I slept with 4 of my work mates, *cringe factor* I even gave them hickies, why did I do that? Like leaving my mark on them or something- how embarrassing. 1 DJ, 1 fellow bar attendant, 1 supervisor and 1 manager.
None of them had girlfriends so what’s with the shame? I can guarantee that the guys I banged had banged many more then 4 of the girls there…
I seemed to be loved by all but 1. The big boss, to be blunt, he was a loser, dry, flat and mean with a serious dislike for me. Let’s call him Waz cos that was his name.

My first concur was the supervisor, I thought I loved him. Turned out after a lengthy pursuit and a short relationship he didn’t feel the same, on NYE I walked out the back to be confronted by him pashing someone else.
Then there was the red headed DJ, I thought he was so cool, he thought he was so cool. He was constantly chatting me up, telling me how hot I was, making future plans, calling me. I hesitated, because I had already banged the supervisor and I didn’t want a “reputation” but the red headed DJ convinced me this was different and of course I started to envision our future together.. This guy really wanted to shag me and I really wanted to make him happy. So I did, stayed over and drove home in the morning, planning the wedding.
Wait what? I never heard from him again? Whaaaaaat? When he finished a set of DJing if I was working Id wait anxiously for my kiss goodbye but waaaaat? He would actually literally run to the door, which was strange watch a grown run away from me. Oh well shit happens.
The bar attendant was ok, no promises, no expectations just 2 mates bored and drunk.
And the bar manager was my flat mate, after trying to forge a relationship with him for 5 months (one of those relationships where he tells me not to tell anybody about us for the sake of professionalism, but really so he can shag around without any unwanted obstacles) and being constantly crushed by finding out that he was banging every other girl there I was deflated. I drew the line. No more, I’m out of here.
I handed in my resignation, gave a months notice and planned my move back to Melbourne, where I was free to be me!!! I had realised that this high school fantasy of being loved and accepted and part of a big group of friends with a cool boyfriend wasn’t real, I had realised that doing what men asked you to do wouldn’t make them like you, quite the opposite which is still a bizarre concept to me. I had learnt so much and so I guess I had that to be grateful for, but I had kind of ruined my reputation, in Cottesloe and I felt like a bit of a desperate loser. Oh well, that’s life. Move on.
So the remaining month was going to be difficult, I kind of just wanted to fuck off and move on with my life, There is a very big world out there, full of real things, beautiful things, kindness and Art, genuine friendship and love.
I think my distain for the Cott peaked one night when I knocked off work and had a drink in the pub, just hanging out, chatting when one of the bosses, a gross pasty mean shit, the kind of guy who looked like he played cricket and I hate cricket, the kind that didn’t wear zinc on his nose but still looked like he was a zinc wearer, who happened to be the brother of the big boss Waz, the guy who hated me from day 1. this pasty twat who had hadn’t ever had 1 conversation with me asked me to come and see something out the back, of course I obliged, curious as to what he wanted and I also felt required to do as he said, he was after all my superior.
He was really drunk, pointed to a table and said “bend over that and fuck me”
I was like, “what the fuck?”
He tried to kiss me, I laughed at him, pushed him away from me and walked inside, pretending that I wasn’t crushed, pretending that it didn’t bother me that I was now the big fucking slut joke.
He laughed too and went inside to tell the boys that his plan didn’t work, they all laughed. I went home.

I may have been a little grumpy at my last week of work, wanting to knock off early ect, I may have been a little impatient with drunk customers but fuck I was there wasn’t I???

So one day during my last week the big boss Waz walked in, pointed to me and motioned for me to follow him.
I did so, he sat me down at a table out the back and asked me if something was wrong,
Me, “nope, just looking forward to leaving and getting back to Melbourne next week”
Waz, “ok cos we have noticed you have a bit of attitude at work?”
Me “yeah sorry about that, probably just losing a bit of patience with the drunk customers, I’ll snap out of it for the rest of the week”
You could see in Waz’s face he hated me, he was dying to humiliate me and insult me or something, he really should have just left it at that.
But he couldn’t help himself..
Waz “well don’t you think that if you didn’t sleep with so many of the boys here you would have enjoyed your time more?”
I was shocked, all of the staff were sleeping around, all of the men there, all of the mangers were men and they were all sleeping with which ever bar attendant they wanted and I was copping this? I was so embarrassed, I felt like the dirty slut that I was in his eyes.
This was slut shaming, but slut shaming wasn’t even a thing yet, back then you were just a slut….. And it was shameful.
I wanted to tell him that his brother propositioned me last night, I wanted to tell him that I had only had 2 sexual partners when I started working there, I wanted to slap his arsehole head and tell him that in the real world nobody would ever go near him and the only reason he pulls chicks is cos he’s their boss and that’s highly fucking illegal bit to mention embarrassing! But I didn’t, I put my dirty little slut tail between my legs, told him he was right, told him I was sorry and went to finish my shift.

He gave me a nod to let me know that he approved of my apology and went on with his life as a cunt.

I’m still angry. I still think of all the things I would say if I bumped into that man today.
Today I’m an artist, a mother of four amazing children, today I’m proud of my sexual past and I believe in a woman’s right to safe fun sexual freedom. Today I know better these people taught me that, they taught me how not to raise my boys.
Sex is not a tool to bully or manipulate, it is OK to sleep with someone when you very first meet them. False promises to get sex is not ok.
Slut shaming is not ok. Don’t let it be.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t hit or bully my children and as a result Im raising these god dam free spirits. Hopefully your next customers have a couple of robots for you to feed.”

It wasn’t until recently that I learned what the majority of the general publics opinion towards kids at cafes was. And like usual, it differed to mine.

Doing my daily troll of the news sites through Facebook and more importantly the comments under the stories I stumbled across an article on children and how welcome they are in cafes.
The general opinion was quite shocking.
I learned that apparently children are welcome in cafes but only if they are well behaved. In other words, children who behave like adults are welcome in public and those who act their age must stay at home.
Now Im a mother of 2 of Fremantles biggest turds, yet I still frequent cafes every single day.
Not once have I bought into the idea that maybe my tribe and I weren’t welcome. Yes Ive had head shakes and we’ve even been kicked out of a few places for my sons nudity, daughters lack of shoes, my son killed a tadpole, daughter stole chocolate etc etc and the list goes on. The key, I believe to our cafe consistency despite all of this is one simple fact. I don’t care.
If I can get us all back to my car with a belly fully of soy chai and no criminal charges, its a win.

My personal favourite was a comment on this particular news site, by a clearly inexperienced 20 something year old woman who’s pride and joy was obviously her job as her profile pic was her in her ultra flattering fifo fluro yellow outfit,
“I don’t mind mums bringing their kids to cafes, but when a kid is chucking a massive tantrum and the mum is just sitting there not doing anything to stop them I get mad”
Now this piece of parenting 101 had the support of 54 ‘likes’ a feeling Im yet to revel in but can imagine it puffs the feathers nicely.
That mum that our fifo goddess is shaming? Thats me. Actually Im worse, I won’t sit back and do nothing while my child screams his head off ruining everyones morning paper, I’ll probably grab my phone and check my instagram or text a picture of the tantrum to a friend and do my very best to ignore the entire situation. As most people with toddler tantrum experience will tell you, time is the only healer, soothing, pandering, pretending to give a fuck is all just to make you look like a better mum and will actually serve no purpose in shortening the time of said tantrum. Your better off sneaking out and hoping your child doesn’t follow.
So if anyones wondering thats most probably the reason why mums look as if they don’t care, trust me, they do. We want our kids to enjoy their milkshakes and have a good time but when your 2 and you can’t find a slide or a tree or can’t have the 3rd chocolate you wants you tend to express yourself, vocally.
And why is this anyone else’s problem but yours? Because children are our FUTURE. They are as big a part of this community as we are and carry just as much importance. Children matter, they should be brought to cafes and restaurants and slowly taught the art of our culture. Mums count, the morning coffee and socialisation of a woman raising tomorrows generation of miracle workers is just as important if not more then that of a loser in a suit. Don’t get me started on the coin we part with in a cafe, a milkshake, piece of cake and coffee- trust me, we pay for our 30 minutes of public adulthood. Who the fuck wants to spend their entire day in a park? We don’t love it as much as our working husbands think we do.

Today I shall leave you with the idea that maybe the next time you see a new mum in a cafe just trying to down some hot liquid sanity, struggling while her little bundle of turd stress’s the crap out of her remember this one thing, its probably not the baby that is overwhelming her, its probably the thought that she no longer feels welcome or the judgemental eyes that are ruining her morning and when in that situation you’d never believe how far a bit of kindness can go. She’s a mum, she’s had no sleep, she doesn’t wee alone, she’s a hero she deserves a free fucking coffee.
And here is my son, on the run after stripping off, spilling a milkshake and kicking a pregnant woman at our local cafe.

Before continuing to read it should be noted that I have absolutely no qualifications to write this post- besides of course being a mother of 2 with 2 on the way, I went to uni and studied Psychology, but differed forever after 3 weeks. Nothing I ever say should be taken seriously or override anything your counsellor/health professional has advised. However I think Im wise as fuck so have a read and take what you want on board.

I don’t like the term “Post Natal Depression” It sounds so depressing, like if you find the early stages of parenthood depressing then you have a condition.. Well having babies IS depressing, its so depressing, not the part you see on Facebook where the husband is bathing the baby and everyone is smiling in maternal bliss, or the older sibling is “Being Sweet” to the new born and the mum is actually wearing mascara. But the real part, the part where the four walls of your living room are closing in on you, your friends are slowly dropping off and the man you once doted over and thought was the absolute shit is now just a big total wave of resentment. Thats normal, it pass’s but its normal. So heres what to do.

Get a snuggy, or “Special blanket/Scarf” The purpose of this item is that everyone who’s close to you knows that when you are wearing it you have cracked, not coping, checking out for a while, the sunggy is for Ground Zero days. Before putting on your straight jacket (Snuggy) make sure all children and babies are safe, like theres no water in the bath, the babies in its cot, the toddlers watching TV etc and pop it on. If your alone when you don the snuggy (Mine is a big South American style Alpaca poncho) text your mum/dad/aunty/best friend or partner a picture of you in the Snuggy. This is their cue to come over and take over because shits going down.
Once someone arrives check out, babies can scream their heads off if they are safe, toddlers can throw food around the house cos mumma aint listening. I like to stair at a wall for an hour while someone else cleans my house and changes nappies. Yes there will be whispers, concerns for your mental state etc but you and I will both know that your just giving yourself a breather and demanding that someone else deals with your living hell for a while.

2 Socialise. This seems ridic, like you need to be reminded. But it can be easy to just say “Fuck it” When getting out seems so god dam hard and staying in your undies on the couch seems so much easier. You will go insane. Trust me. And don’t for a second think that Facebook is socialising, its not. Facebook is a lovely reminder or everything thats going perfectly for everyone else and sucks for you. Facebook is not real, its a snap shot of the best bits. Face to face socialising even when you didn’t want to do it in the first place is therapeutic, other women are mostly kind, mostly lovely, some of your most intimate moments post birth will be with other women especially those who have been there, your contact with them needs to be prioritised

3 Men feel useless when a newborn comes home. Bla bla bla boo fucking hoo.
Let me refrase, men behave uselessly when a newborn comes home. They do get better, when your kid turns 2 they step up and sometimes even take over.
So at the end of the day your chances of PND will be greatly lessened if you expect very little from your husband and avoid friends who still like theirs (that too is depressing) Don’t be scared, you can do this alone.

4 Don’t even entertain the mummy comp. Its a big fucking competition of who’s a better mum and the minute you give birth all the mummy olympians come a knocking. They want you and not on their teams, they want your photo on their spotless walls of defeat. They want to have beaten you in the child birth comp, the mummy morals comp, the brest feeding comp, the sleeping babies, the weight loss comp, it just goes on and on. Its worse online, post anything about your kid or motherhood and out come the keyboard warriors. You will know who your real friends are because the only competitions they want to partake in is the ‘who has gone the longest without washing their hair comp’ or the who’s managed to avoid sex for the longest comp and they cackle over a bottle of wine with you (yes while yours breast feeding)

5 Babies cry, dishes pile up you need to prioritise your sanity. A baby who is fed, burped and has a dry bum yet is still crying because it isn’t being walked from room to room and rocked and sang to is not as important as a vagina that has not been washed in over 24 hours. Put the baby in its safe place, let it cry and have that shower. Dishes and washing despite what husbo might think are NOT as important as your cup of tea or coffee, they are NOT as important as your daily exercise, they are NOT as important as that hour long chat with your bestie on her lunch break. Get your priorities sorted, your the captain of this ship, if your a nutty sleep deprived lunatic incapable of wiping her own arse then a sparkling kitchen means SHIT ladies.

And thats about all I have to say on the topic. Other then the obvious, avoid Rebecca Judd’s social media pages etc. On a final note just remember one thing, when it comes to babies, everything is temporary, the victories and the down falls. However on a gradual scale everything is getting easier, slowly as it may seem. Your a mum, your winning
And in the spirit of keeping things real- here is the worst photo ever taken of my fat pregnant self. Bet your feeling better already xxx Con
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Yep and thats on a good day, thats a day when my husband and I can communicate for long enough to agree on one thing, to go to the counsellor.

A day where Im not screaming at my children for some bizarre act of arseholiness that leaves me googling everything from Autism to dyslexia to psychopathic tendencies in toddlers. And Im actually feeling inspired enough to smile at how sweet their individual weirdness is.

And thats on a day where I cough or laugh or sneeze and only a small amount of urine uninvitedly invades my undies as apposed to enough to soak through my jeans. Hot.

Brace Yourself folks!! Ive started another BLOGGGGGGGGGG

And its gonna be worse then ever.

If anybody who doesn’t know me ever by some twist of fate stumbles across this blog- Allow me….. A little about myself.

Im Constance, a hairdresser, artist and passionnante critique of all things judgy P&C mum and clean eating. Iv also been known to speak up against the Rebecca Judd epidemic and fashion bloggers.
I love my kids and have finally excepted that they are creeps and there is nothing I can do about it. My daughter Billie-Violet (BV) is 5 and some Arlo is nearly 3.
My husband Billy and I separated last year for a few months and then decided to try and reconsolidate when amongst other things we realised that even though we didn’t want anymore children we both really enjoyed the spawn we were already stuck with and didn’t mind each other much either.
A month later I fell pregnant…… With twins.

So after allot of FML moments and wondering who’s grand mother I savagely raped in a past life to deserve this, we sucked it up and buckled up for a bumpy ride. That could hopefully be just excruciating enough to make for an entertaining blog, that or I will at least incur sympathy, which I enjoy also.
If I can’t laugh I will cry, I do cry, at least once a day, but I laugh allot more.
Stay Tuned. xxxxx